New Friends, Old Habits
by Hazuki Furukawa
Summary: A lance with a fear of people enrolls in the DWMA. And she'll need all the help she can get. Well… if she'd let the other students get within ten feet of herself!


Chapter 1: Midnight, Memories, and a Talk

I couldn't sleep. How could I? I was going to a new school tomorrow in a town where I knew no one and danger literally lurked around every corner. Just add my impending fear of people and you get the worst idea in the history of ideas.  
But I guess I can't blame Dad for the move; his job takes him plenty of places and this was just one of those places. This just happens to be the first time I had to come with him. That's business for you—at least, that's what Dad told me.  
I glanced at my digital clock that sat on my bed side table—3:26. Great. I rolled over in frustration. This was not going to work, not in a million years.  
As I mentioned, I've got this fear: a fear of people, to be precise. I've never looked up the scientific name for it; why would I need to? I know what scares me, why would I need to hide it behind some elongated name that sounds like someone throwing up?  
Anyway, I got this fear when I was really young. I was kidnapped and locked in a room until I could kill a little dragon. I was so young, I didn't know how to transform into my weapon form, let alone battle using myself.  
I wasn't the only one. There was this little boy that had to do the same thing; I think his name started with a C? I can't remember. It was so long ago and we hardly ever got to see each other to talk.  
I wish I could say that I had someone out there that was looking for me. But I can't. I was an orphan, on the streets and scraping offerings just to survive and eat everyday. I was on my own.  
That is, until the day the facility was invaded by a man by the name of Lord Death; turns out he's the head of the school I'm going to. The little boy and the lady who tried to get me to kill the dragon escaped, but I was rescued. I was given to Dad to be taken care of.  
He lived in an old wooden house in the country, twenty-five miles away from any civilization. He needed the quiet for his field of study. In my spare time, I trained and learned to transform into my weapon form—turns out I'm a lance. After that, I made straw dummies from the long grass fields and practice self-taught battles techniques on them. I became strong physically, but mentally is another story.  
I had terrible nightmares every night about being locked in that room. When I didn't do what the lady asked me to do, I was taken to a room where they tortured people. One touch from a knife or a shock from a metal rod, if anything that inflicted pain touched my body and my subconscious could feel the pain, I woke up, drenched in sweat. I still have the nightmares.  
And they aren't getting better; they're getting worse.  
While living with Dad in isolation, I never talked to anyone except him and some animals from a nearby forest. I mean, who else was there? My old, battered straw dummies? Even if they could talk, I doubt they'd want to make conversation with someone who used them as pincushions.  
I never went outside the five mile radius of our property. If I needed some things for dinner, I would ask Dad to get them from the grocer. He was always leaving the house for work; he studies cures for Black Blood, so he's in his office/lab a lot, but we always manage to Skype if he's in another town.  
He was relocated a week ago to Death City in America. It's a lot different than England... Though, I'd never lived in a city ever except for when I was homeless. I'm not English though. I was born in American then lived in England for twelve years of my life. I was so little, I grew an English accent. Dad sometimes talks in an English accent instead of American from being around me so much.  
Memories of Dad and I flooded my brain and I smiled. We'd always had fun together, whether we were in each other's presence or not.  
I rolled back over, the glare from the full moon peeking through my window (I kept forgetting to put up my curtains up) keeping me from my sleep. I looked at the clock again—3:46.  
At the sight of the time, my eyelids grew heavy. My thoughts became scrambled and I drifted off to sleep. Unfortunately.

I shot up in mid-scream, drenched in sweat. I panted and pushed my bangs from my eyes. A dream. It was just a dream.  
I glanced at my clock—4:49. I cursed my insomniac-like ways and pulled my sheets off. I got out of bed, an exhilarating shock from the cold, wooden floor making me wish I hadn't.  
I walked into my bathroom and turned on the light. I pulled off my soaking t-shirts and threw it in my dirty clothes hamper along with my underwear. I turned on the shower and steam rose to the ceiling and almost immediately fogged the mirror. I hopped in and stood under the shower head before I began to clean myself.  
When I was finished, I hopped out onto a bath rug into the cool bathroom and pulled a towel out from under the sink. I dried my body and put the damp towel in the hamper, then opened the door to my room and walked in.  
It was a lot colder in my room and the air wasn't thick with smog from my shower, so I could breathe More easily. I walked over to my drawer and pulled on my skivvies. Then I pulled my black t-shirt and pulled it over my head. It was a little tight on my body but also went halfway down my backside. "Whatever physics," I mumbled. I swear, some t-shirt designs.  
I went back to my drawer and pulled a pair of short jean shorts. I shrugged them on and pulled the t-shirt out so it wouldn't be tucked in. I pulled a pair of no-show ankle socks and grabbed my black, knee-high combat boots. After lacing up my boots, I walked into my bathroom. I'd only taken the shower to calm my nerves, so I used the spare hairband that I left in the shower and pulled my hair up and secured it with a shower cap (pretty geek move, I'd say). I pulled the hairband out and let my hair down. I grabbed my brush and started the process.  
Most people hate their hair; but I wasn't like most people (obviously). I loved my hair. It was light brown, naturally almost stick straight, and fine, so I never had trouble managing it. And it was ridiculously long. When I was in that place (I actually refer to it as the Room), the first thing they did was grab my hair in a ponytail and used a knife to cut it all off, so lots of parts were different lengths. Same story for that other kid. So when I got out of there, I almost never let anyone cut my hair ever. The only people that I've ever let cut my hair was me, myself, and I. I only cut off the dead ends every six or do months, so my hair reached about he middle of my thigh.  
After brushing out all the tangles, I walked into my room and grabbed my black leather studded bag. I glanced at my clock one last time—4:32—and walked out of my room.  
I could see the light from Dad's office on from the open door down the hall. This wasn't uncommon; in fact, because of his line of work, I often found him staying up late at night, always near a breakthrough before running into a dead end. It was sometimes really pitiful when he would come out he next morning for breakfast with his head hung low in shame. I always wished I could just tell him that he was a great scientist, even if he never found that bloody cure... But I'm not sure that would help any.  
I poked my head in and knocked on the doorframe. "Dad?"  
Dad was leaning over some paperwork looking flustered. He didn't even look up at me when he answered, "Yes?"  
I stepped inside hesitantly. I almost never talked to him when he was working. "I was..."—I sat in a wooden chair that wasn't covered in papers—"I wanted to talk... You know, see what you were up to."  
Dad didn't answer. He just held a paper in front of his face and studied it. "I heard you turn on the shower head," he said plainly. "Was it a nightmare?"  
"Dad, you know that's what it was. I always take showers when I have nightmares."  
He set down the paper and began to scan the desk full of unorganized files and pages. "I know sweetheart. I know." He finally turned to me and his eyes narrowed. "Where are you going?"  
I looked down at myself, almost forgetting I was already ready to go to school... At five o'clock in the morning. I looked back up at him. "Well, since I... you know... am of afraid people..." The words came slow, almost like I was embarrassed—which I was for whatever strange reason. "I was going to go to school... early enough in the morning that no one would see me."  
Dad just stared at me. He pulled his glasses off and set them on the table. "Kristofferson," he said, not making eye contact with me and looking at the papers on his desk, "I know you're afraid of people, but"—he turned to me—"not all people are like that." He gestured to himself. "I'm not."  
"But you're different," I explained. "You're my Dad, biological or not. You took me in and cared for me like no one else ever had."  
He smiled at me. "Krissi, I know you think all people will abandon you, but they won't. Only one in twelve people do that."  
"Then how come the first eleven people who saw me freezing on a street clinging to life at age three didn't do anything?" I leaned forward, tears in my eyes. "I don't want to be hurt."  
Dad just stared at me. "Krissi," he finally said after a moment, " I hate  
to be the one to tell you this... but you're going to get hurt. It's life." He grabbed my hand and held it. "But you'll get through."  
I stared at him in awe. He smiled his warm smile and I couldn't help it; I hugged him tightly, surprising my tears. "I love you, Daddy," I whispered, my voice on shaky. "I really do."  
Dad squeezed me back and rubbed my back comfortingly. "I know. I love you, too."  
I pulled away and we stared into each others eyes. Dad cupped my face in his hand and stroked my cheek with his thumb. We were both smiling.  
He pulled away and turned back to his desk, still smiling. I scooted closer and peered at his work. "What are doing?"  
"Oh, nothing," he replied, picking up another paper. I looked at his untidy desk, files and pages sprawled everywhere. My eyes landed on one page in particular. At the top of the paper was a heading: Custody and Visiting Rights.  
I cocked my head and narrowed my eyes, my smile fading. I reached over and grabbed it. "What's this?" I asked as I lifted the page to my face.  
Dad turned to me in shock. "Oh, sweetie, that's—"  
I cut him off, my voice shaky From what I was reading. "'All custody will remain with Kristofferson Jones' adoptive father, Timber Jones, while visiting rights will be granted to her biological mother, Margaret Anderson.'"  
I sucked in my bottom lip and bit it. I was on the verge of tears again, but not in the way I was before. I looked up at Dad then back to the paper, scanning it. "What is this?"  
He sighed. "Krissi, I—"  
"'Biological mother?'" I read again. I looked at Dad straight in the eye, my voice becoming shaky with anger and my holding back of tears. "There was a court order given to you, telling you that my mother was discovered and that she would be allowed to come and visit any time she pleased..." I bit my quivering lip, holding back tears."And didn't tell me?"  
Dad closed his eyes and sighed. "Kristoff, I was going to tell you—"  
"When?"  
He looked at me, probably surprised at my attitude. "As soon as I read through the paperwork."  
I looked down and scanned the paper once more. "When were these given to you?" I asked on the verge of breaking down. "How long did you know."  
Dad sighed and answered: "A week and a half ago was when I received the files." He sighed once more. "I've known since we arrived in Death City."  
My head shot up and I looked at him, realization setting in. "We didn't come here for work... did we?"  
Dad looked at me then shook his head. "Your mother lives in Death City... so I asked Lord Death to move us here so you could get to know her."  
I sat in silence. I began to breathe hard and tears welled in my eyes. I set the paper down an stood up, Dad looking at me remorsefully. In a shaky voice, I said quickly, "I need to go." Then I turned on my heels and headed down he hall. I could hear Dad get up and walk after me.  
"Kristofferson," he called from the room. I was already in the foyer. I opened the door. "Kristoffe—" I shut the door and began walking down the street to where the school was.  
Tears spilled from my eyes and I began to breathe heavily in frustrated sobs. Dad was right; in life, I was going to get hurt. I just never knew he would be the one to do it.


End file.
